"Level 98," Voss rumbled, his voice cracking like a whip over the steady rhythm of marching boots. He didn't even look back as he flicked a piece of dried gore off his knuckles. "Two more fights like that Hilltop mess and I'll be hitting the triple digits. I can practically feel the new skill."
"Oh, please," Lucan drawled, flickering from a shadow near the guardrail to a spot right beside Damien's swaying snake-tail. "You've been 'feeling the evolution' for three days, Voss. At this rate, the apocalypse will end before you actually sprout that second set of fangs you keep promising us. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at a comfortable 96, and I don't smell like a wet dog."
Ivan snorted, "Level is just a number until you're facing a group of coordinated hostiles. But if we're measuring, I'm at 97. And I did it without hiding in the shadows like a coward."
